NorthSouth is not a Direction
by ScribblinDaydreamer
Summary: 'Be more like your brother.' Screw it. Romano decides to imitate Veneziano for a day and the whole world falls in love with him. Crack Oneshot. Rated T for... a little swearing, I guess?


WHOO. HETALIA ONE SHOT.

Summary: Romano imitates Veneziano for a day and the whole world falls in love with him. Oh dear. Crack-humour.

A/N: Romano, I am sorry. No, not really, enjoy!

Yet another world meeting, and Romano somehow finds himself sandwiched between the Bad Touch Trio; Spain, France and Prussia. They poke and prod at him, teasing him and making him release an endless barrage of swearing, mostly in Italian, some in English and Spanish, a little French for good measure, but not German. Certainly not German. As if he would defile his tongue with the foul language.

'Shut the fuck up, stronzo!' he snarls viciously at France, who is whispering perverted things in his ear. 'I'm sick of your shit!'

The trio hardly reacts, Prussia keeps laughing, France keeps talking, and Spain keeps poking Romano's face, which is growing redder by the minute.

'Ah, vaffanculo,' Romano sighs, dropping his head onto the desk with a thud.

'Aww, not cute, Lovi,' Prussia comments in an eerily accurate imitation of Spain. 'You should be more like your brother.'

That hit a nerve. A very sensitive nerve. Romano raises his head slowly off the table, fixing the albino with his most bone-chilling, soul-shrivelling, pants-pissing look. The three nations back away from the Italian, glancing at each other fearfully.

Romano's freezing glare slowly morphs into a sick smirk as he stands and stares Prussia down. 'Are you going to take that back?' he asks politely, a terrifying steady calm in his voice. 'Or am I going to have to teach you exactly why I am feared by the mafia?'

'I-I take it back, I'm sorry!' Prussia stutters, frightened beyond caring that most of the nations in the conference room were now staring at them. 'Christ, Romano, don't kill me!'

Romano's smirk disappears, once again replaced by the glare that rivalled Russia's widest grin. 'Consider yourself lucky,' he deadpans, turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

It's silent for a few moments, except for the cheerful 'Ve's of an oblivious Italian across the table. Then the meeting carries on as usual, and Romano doesn't enter again for the rest of the day.

- break-

The next morning, Romano wakes up full of vengeance. Fuck the world. Fuck all the nations. Fuck everything. If they want him to be like his brother, then they will fucking get it. He throws his covers off, walking purposefully into the bathroom to prepare for the second day of the meeting.

Staring into the mirror, he practices his facial expressions. Unlike his brother though, Romano can't see with his eyes closed. They'd have to stay open. It ruins the illusion a little, but it can't be helped.

Twenty minutes later, Romano skips into the conference room, coffee in hand and a smile plastered on his face. 'Ciao! Good morning everyone! Who will be speaking today?'

The volume drops to zero as every nation in the room stares, slack-jawed at him. He grows nervous for a second, but then remembers, Veneziano wouldn't care, wouldn't even notice, the clueless little shit. So Romano ignores the shocked attention. _I don't give a flying fuck. Not today._

He tilts his head innocently, looking to the head of the table where America has dropped his soda, spilling fizzing liquid everywhere.

'Ah, America!' Romano greets the stunned nation cheerfully with a cute wave. 'Are you holding the meeting today? You always have the most interesting ideas!'

Several nations in the room pinch themselves to see if they are dreaming. Spain just passes out cold, his brain unable to comprehend the sudden change in South Italy.

'Err, ah, y-yeah,' America replies, completely disarmed by that charming Italian smile. 'Take a seat.'

Romano skips over and sits down next to his brother, who is drooling on the table, asleep.

_Dumber than a sack of potatoes_, Romano thinks, his gorgeous smile never fading.

Throughout America's speaking, Romano is enthusiastic and positive, even displaying an adorably confused pout when he can't understand the American's slang. At the morning recess, Romano leaves to obtain another cup of coffee, humming happily as he dances out of the room. As soon as the door closes, the remaining nations explode into chaos.

'Norway, did Hell freeze over?!'

'Holy shit, the world is ending!'

'What the fuck is going on?'

The shouting is suddenly silenced by America quietly asking, 'Did anyone else realize that South Italy is kind of amazingly gorgeous?'

A long pause.

'DIBS!' Prussia yells, leaping up onto the table, hand high in the air.

'Romano is mine!' Spain protests, grabbing his German friend by the ankles. 'Get down!'

'Used to be,' France corrects. 'I would very much like to make him mine, though…'

'He will become one with Mother Russia, da?' Russia grins eerily.

'Only if you beat me in a fight!' Denmark declares foolishly. 'South Italy's mine!'

He is promptly pounded into the ground by Norway.

'You're all being awfully rude,' England reprimands the squabbling nations. 'As the only polite and sane one in here, I deserve to have South Italy!'

'Over my dead body!' Belgium pushes him. 'I am much saner than you, Mr. I-can-see-unicorns.'

'I'd say I'm much politer than both of you,' Canada comments, going completely unheard.

'I'm like, the obvious choice,' Poland brags with a flick of his hair. 'Since I'm the most fabulous.'

'FREE-FOR-ALL!' America yells, drawing everyone's attention. 'Everyone for themselves! Let Romano decide!'

The nations nod in mutual agreement, sizing each other up with wary glances. The atmosphere has turned hostile and competitive.

That evening, Romano's hotel room is flooded with gifts; everything from chocolates to flowers to plush toys to wine. He's confused for a moment, thinking maybe he walked into the wrong room. He glances at the number on the door. Nope. This is his room. Curiously, he gathers a few pieces of paper and fancy cards and scans through them. He sees his name on all of them, and upon realizing they were all confessions of love and a few proposals, he drops them as if they're on fire.

_No way. No fucking way._

'Nope,' Romano says to the gift-filled room, throwing his hands up in surrender. 'Can't deal with this shit. Not today.' He wades through the piles of various items into the safe haven of the bedroom, where he immediately falls asleep, exhausted by an entire day of acting ditzy and hyper.

-break-

The following day, Romano sleeps in, not accustomed to maintaining such high levels of energy for extended periods of time. The other nations begin to argue again in his absence, save for the axis trio, who were sitting silently including Veneziano, who's again fast asleep on the table.

'Everyone knows I'm the best lover,' France says confidently with a wink.

'I'm better,' Greece mumbles sleepily. He yawns. 'Everyone knows.'

'I'm the country of passion!' Spain cries indignantly. 'He's definitely mine!'

'I'll shoot you if you say that again,' Switzerland threatens. 'South Italy is mine.'

'But I want him too,' Liechtenstein begs, tugging on Switzerland's sleeve.

'Tough luck, sister,' he pulls away. 'It's a free-for-all.'

'I'll _make_ him mine,' Belarus glares aggressively.

Meanwhile, Veneziano lets out a dismayed 'Ve' in his sleep. His dream of swimming with sea turtles changes into a _Finding Nemo_ flashback as he breaks out of the water. A hundred seagulls crowd around, snapping at each other, 'Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine…'

North Italy leaps up, wide awake, slamming his hand down on the table with as much force as Germany usually does when he hosts meetings. He bares his teeth at the nations who have gone quiet like frightened children. His usually closed eyes are wide open in a fierce glare, the golden orbs burning brightly with anger.

'Pipe the FUCK down!' Veneziano growls at the nations. 'Romano is MINE. Anyone touches him, and I will CRUCIFY you ALL.' He sits back down, folding his arms and scowling at the room.

It's dead silent, except for the thud of Spain hitting the floor as he passes out.

The nations slowly sit down, quietly agreeing that the free-for-all is over and North Italy has won.

Romano returns just before lunch time, back to his usual self. He strolls in through the door and is immediately tackled by his brother, sending them both crashing to the floor as Veneziano clings to him affectionately.

'WHAT THE FUCK, FELI.'

'Ve, I'm just happy to see you!'

-END-

A/N: hi. Bye. Okay. I need to sleep.


End file.
